


The Letter From Hell

by redwinehouse (orphan_account)



Series: Cranial Capacity INDEFINITE HIATUS, BUT A FULL STORY LINE WAS COMPLETED [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Humor, Infidelity, Romance, Sherlock - Freeform, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 07:23:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11823924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/redwinehouse
Summary: You are seething when James Moriarty blackmails you into a rendezvous. To your surprise, he only wants to take you across London to a surprise destination. Your journey is just as interesting as its end.





	The Letter From Hell

  


[ ](http://www.dazzlejunction.com/generators/image-generator.php)

You pushed open the door of 221B and immediately hated yourself. But hey, it came with the territory. 

You scanned the people walking along the pavement, looking for the monster that wore the costume of a handsome, charming, and affectionate gentleman. It took you a few seconds, but the sharp dressed man leisurely leaning against lamp post dressed in a designer suit and sunglasses caught your eye. Although you couldn’t see his eyes, it was obvious that he was already looking at you. He lifted the hand that wasn’t in his pocket and gave you a small wave. He topped it off with a dazzling, opened mouth, perfect white teeth smirk. 

Ah, yes. That was why you slept with him. 

He motioned you over. There was a lot of traffic and you hated when you had to wait to cross, so you shook your head and gestured your way. Moriarty responded with another shake of his head and what you could see was a chuckle, making you laugh. 

He didn’t like to wait to cross the street in traffic. How oddly human. 

You gave a sigh of defeat and walked over to the crosswalk. You crossed your arms and prepared to wait. After about a minute, you saw that only two cars were coming from either side and if you really tried, you could make it. You got into a lunge position. Saying a little prayer to Usain Bolt, you booked it. 

The cars were a lot closer than you thought and when you reached the curb, they flew passed you. One of the drivers was kind enough to roll down her window and lay a slew of obscenities your way. Honestly, you couldn’t blame her. Pedestrians were the worst when you were driving and your stunt was grade A areshole. It was still fun, though. 

“I knew you wanted to see me but I didn’t realize that you were absolutely frothing at the mouth,” Moriarty drawled, seeming to materialize out of thin air. He opened his arms and shrugged. “It must be my _pure animal magnetism.”_

You turned. “I don’t want to see you. You _blackmailed_ me into coming,” you retorted. “In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to see you ever again.” 

“Huh,” Moriarty said pensively as he popped something in his mouth. You realized that he was eating pistachios. 

That explained the crunching. 

He looked up at the sun, the light reflecting off of his sunglasses and making his skin glow. “That’s weird.” 

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. You decided to stay quiet. It was obvious that Moriarty liked to play games in every aspect of his life and you would not give him the satisfaction of actively participating in this one by showing even the slightest bit of interest. It seemed to have worked, because there was a pungent pause and he raised an eyebrow. 

You gave yourself a mental pat on the back. 

_“Weeell,”_ he chimed, “you were the one grabbing my wrist and begging me to stay when I tried to leave last night. So you can’t blame me for assuming.” He threw a pistachio shell on the ground before giving you a wicked grin. 

Shame. You closed your eyes and lowered your head as if you were a dog caught peeing on the carpet. Only you were lower than a dog. You were scum. You had done that in the heat of the moment. But it was completely logical and the correct biological response to the situation, said the anthropologist. The anthropologist also reminded you that what made people different from other species was self-awareness. 

Your diploma made sure you knew that you were in fact a terrible person. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” 

You put your hands to his chest and pushed him, causing him to stumble a little bit. “What the fuck do you think is wrong?” 

Moriarty straightened himself and brushed off his coat and gestured to his amassable. _“Westwood.”_

“Well, it looks the same off the rack to ninety-nine percent of the population,” you snapped as you began to stalk off. You didn’t know where, but as long as you weren’t there, you would be a happy woman. 

“Oh, little mouse please don’t go,” Moriarty, pretended to plead. He took your wrist. “I came all this way to see you and you’re just going to leave?” 

You finally turned around, but Moriarty kept his hand on your wrist. “Read my lips, Moriarty,” you began. 

He pushed his sunglasses back and gave you the most adorable Bafta, Oscar, and Emmy Award winning puppy dog face. Step aside, Marlon Brando, a new king of Hollywood had arrived. 

“Answer me one question.” 

Moriarty smirked. _“Anything,_ for you, love.” 

“Is Jade okay?” 

Moriarty’s neck went limp. His chin hit his chest as he blew air from his lips, reminding you of a horse. “You really want to talk about that now?” he looked up, completely uninterested. “The brat is as fine as a person can be if they’re kidnapped. It’s called _leverage_ ” he stood next to you. “It’s crime 101.” 

He slung an arm around your shoulder and kissed your cheek, something you disgustingly liked. “I want to go on a little,” he made his fingers into two legs, “walk today.” The two fingers began to move as if they were on a stroll. 

You looked at him and your noses brushed. Even during snack time Moriarty was still able to maintain his sex appeal. 

Moriarty looked at your lips and then you locked eyes. With a raised eyebrow and a seductive smirk, he whispered, “Go ahead.” 

You suddenly realized that you had been breathing heavily, your lips parted. You shook your head. “I’m not that kind of person,” you quavered, trying to convince yourself. It sounded ridiculous as soon as it left your lips. 

Moriarty scrunched his nose. “Well, you kinda are, sweetheart, but there’s nothing wrong with getting what you want.” 

“You’ve killed people with that attitude,” you said with pain. 

Moriarty bared his teeth and sucked in a breath. _“Yeeeeah,”_ he said with a shrug. “But you just want to kiss me and that’s a little different.” 

With hooded eyes, you gently slid your hand to the base of Moriarty’s neck and played with his hair. You were rewarded with devilish grin. “Now isn’t that just lovely?” 

You pulled him to you and your lips finally met. You were all smiles when he immediately parted his lips, letting you slip your tongue into his mouth. He tilted his head and gently and ran his fingertips through your hair. You pulled him closer as he lifted his hand up to cup your face. 

Just as you went to wrap your arms around his neck he pulled away. 

“No, no, no,” he snickered, wagging a finger, “not in public.” He took your hand. 

“Where are we going?” 

Moriarty had slipped his sunglasses back on, looking forever like the suave guy that he was. “That’s for me to know and you to find out in…” he checked his watch, “a hour and forty minutes.” 

Your mouth dropped. “What? You’re actually going to be around me without any other distraction for that long?” This didn’t make sense. His antisocial personality disorder should have only let him deal with you in short bursts. 

Moriarty ran his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “It’s not like I have to pay attention to you. Ever walked a dog?” He looked over at you. 

“I have.” 

“It’s like that.” He popped a piece of gum in his mouth. 

“Thanks.” It was quiet for a couple seconds. You looked over at him. “Do you like dogs?” 

He began to fiddle with his phone. “I like the idea that you can have something somewhat clever beneath you that is completely submissive and obedient. Not to mention that it will love you un- conditionally if you just give it a place to live, feed it, and never abuse it.” He continued to smack his gum. “I’d never go out and get one. But if I happened to come across an interesting one that I found with a terrible owner, I might have to step in.” 

Although you couldn’t see his eyes because of the sunglasses, you had a feeling he was looking at you. “But you would have to put it down if it went rabid, of course. Can’t have something that will come back to bite _youuuuu,_ ” he tilled. 

That was a very straightforward and unsettling metaphor. 

“Smart dogs can get in a good bite and run away.” 

Moriarty slid his glasses down the bridge of his nose. “But there is always the dog catcher.” He winked before sliding them back up. He snaked his arm around your waist and pulled you against him. “As long as there are no bites, there are no final trips to the vet.” He kissed the top of your head. 

~*~ 

Moriarty wasn’t kidding when he compared your stroll to walking a dog. After your initial conversation, he completely ignored you. Not only would he not speak to you, he wouldn’t even look at you. He just popped his headphones in and continued to walk, usually doing something on his phone. You were positive he was working on something against the greater good and would probably be taking some lives. Like any another person, he was only half paying attention to where he was going because of phone fiddling. He mapped out murders like one would play fruit ninja as he bopped to whatever music he was listening to. You began to study him. The idea was both macabre and funny. 

Moriarty would make for a very interesting case study. You weren’t a cultural anthropologist, but you were lucky enough to be in a field in which every branch fell under one great umbrella. You had taken your share of extensive cultural anthropology courses in university to know how to proceed with your idea. You would have to collaborate with a psychologist, of course. First you had to figure out what you were looking for. 

“If you stare any longer things will not remain pleasant,” Moriarty suddenly warned, still not looking up from his phone. 

“I was trying to figure out how I could use you for my benefit,” you said simply, facing forward. You had a feeling he would like that answer. Suddenly. Moriarty flung his arm in front of you, forcing you to stop. 

His glasses now resting on the top of his head, Moriarty place his hand over your mouth. “You better have a sufficient follow up,” he was looking at you, wide eyed and eyebrows comically raised. It was terrifying, “or you’ll be dead.” 

_That_ was exactly why you wanted to study him. 

He took his hand away from your mouth. 

Fearlessly, you told him, “From an anthropologist’s view, I see you as an extremely interesting and unique individual. As we were walking I was imagining doing a study on what basically makes you tick.” You tried to find the right words. “What is the high profile criminal culture? “ 

You started to get excited, as you tended to do when a good idea for a new project was shaping. “Obviously it would be tailored around you specifically and you would be given a pseudo name.” You looked at the ground, biting your lip. By this point you were talking to yourself. “But if I was doing criminal culture I would have to do an ethnography and that would probably get me killed. There is a reason no one has done it before. God _damn it.”_ You kicked at the ground. 

You heard laughter. James Moriarty was looking at the sky with a hand on his chest, laughing as if a child had shown him a shitty drawing. He ran a hand down his face and shook his head, turning to you with a Cheshire smile. 

“You are a lovely piece of work,” he placed both of his hands firmly on your shoulders, “and I have yet to run into anyone I even remotely want to waste my time with. Sherlock Holmes is my intellectual rival and actually interesting, but _spending_ time with him would just be utter misery.” He gave you a crooked smile. “So for me that’s about the nicest thing you’re going to get.” 

He really liked showing affection while simultaneously reminding you that you were still dirt. 

The whole thing was just fascinating to you and you moved closer, analyzing every inch of his face. You lightly placed your fingertips on his jawline. You watched your fingers as you ran them down the sharp edges. You swirled up to his cheek bones and ghosted done the bridge of his nose and onto his lips. You lightly pulled the lower one down and turned your focus to his brow ridge. That was when your eyes met. 

The playfulness was gone. His eyes were hard and dark, just waiting to devour you and anything else that stood in his way. You realized that he could snap your neck at a moment’s notice and not feel a thing. You traced your fingers down to those eyes, and his eyelids fluttered closed. 

You pulled away. “What are you?” 

He slid his hand to the nape of your neck and opened his eyes. He leaned forward and placed his lips next to your ear. 

“The one who is going to break you,” 

~*~ 

The rest of the walk was quiet. Although Moriarty had gone back to ignoring you and retreated into his music, he was holding your hand. It was so much different from Sherlock’s. 

When you held his hand, there was a clear sense of love. There was a connection when you held hands, as if you couldn’t go anywhere without making sure the other was with you. You wanted that contact to remind you that both of you were safe. Holding Sherlock’s hand was your anchor and a joy in your life that you wouldn’t take for granted. 

Holding Moriarty’s hand was putting on airs. He hadn’t even looked at you when he threaded his fingers with yours. It was like a second thought that was immediately forgotten as soon as it was put into action. He was obviously mimicking the behavior of someone on a romantic day out. 

As the minutes passed, you had slowly started to notice that you had no idea where you were. You had to have lost your bearings when you were busy studying your psycho tour guide. 

“James, where are we?” 

Moriarty immediately perked up. “ _’James?’_ Not even Jim. I’m _James?”_ His head lolled over in your direction and he popped his headphones off. “It must be love.” He looked positively fiendish as he pulled you against his chest and kissed your forehead. 

You were standing on the pavement off to the side, leaving enough room for people to walk by. Looking around, you saw that you were next to a small road. You were surrounded by a block of red brick buildings, and in front of you was a much larger building and a narrow road to your left. The architecture of the large building was a little more delicate than the others, with arched windows and white and orange accents. It looked like it had been standing for much longer than its companions and probably went through restoration. 

“I came here a lot as a kid,” Moriarty drawled, half interested. He began to take you down the street. 

You tried not to sputter at the thought, but completely failed. Morairty as a child was a very hard picture to paint. Yes, factually he needed to have gone through childhood to be the spider that he was today, but seeing him with stubby little legs or going through puberty with his voice cracking was just bizarre. 

He clearly knew what you were thinking and looked at you with a smirk. “I was _the cool kid,”_ he said mockingly, making air quotations. “Teachers liked me. They always told my parents that I was outgoing and charismatic.” he laughed. “So I was _very good_ at playing pretend and _very good_ at blaming other people for the dead animals I would stuff in everyone’s cubbies.” He looked around frantically before covering your mouth. “Don’t tell anyone. I might get in trouble,” he whispered. 

You jerked away, not finding his act the least bit funny. 

“My parents, on the other hand, had to disagree with them.” 

“That doesn’t surprise me.” 

“The boy living next to us had this absolutely _stupid_ tom cat that would not shut the fuck up.” 

Moriarty’s face was so animated and there was an extra bounce in his step. Talking about himself must have been one of his favorite hobbies. 

He spit out his gum and continued, “So I snuck out one night, got a big old can of tuna fish and lured that thing into my backyard. I had nicked my dad’s match book because he didn’t care about secondhand smoke, and I lit that thing on fire.” he sighed in content, a small smile on his face. “I slept so well after that.” 

You didn’t know what to say. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you; one of the early signs of psychopathy was killing animals and harming any other living thing in general. You were sure he was aggressive and hurt other kids due to his lack of empathy, but was smart enough to leave the children in his class alone so that he wouldn't get caught. 

“We’re here.” 

You were snapped out of your thoughts at Moriarty’s words. “We’re where?” you asked. You were just standing on the pavement next to the last brick building. You were completely miffed. Why would a young Moriarty play in a dirty alley? “We walked for an hour and forty minutes to stand next to a building?” 

Moriarty was casually leaning against the brick wall, looking at you with his Cheshire grin. “We walked for an hour and forty minutes to see where a whore died.” 

The look you gave him must have been absolutely ridiculous because he gave you a condescending laughing. “Do you really not know where we are?” He flung an arm out. 

“A disgusting alley in a disgusting part of London.” 

“You are perhaps a third percent correct, sweetheart.” Moriarty pulled you over to where he was standing. “We are on Durward Street, formally known as Buck’s Row in Whitechapel, London.” He pointed at the mud, “Right here,” he made an ‘x’ in the dirt with his foot, “a cart driver in 1888 found the body of a prostitute named Mary Ann Nichols. According to the coroner, large vessels on the sides of her neck were slashed apart.” 

Ever so gently, Moriarty traced two lines down either side of your neck with his fingertips, each ending with a kiss to your soft skin. It made your breath hitch. 

“Her abdomen was completely ripped open,” he said quietly, “cut all from the center of her bottom ribs along the right side,” his hand traveled down the curves of the right side of your body, “under the pelvis,” his hand slipped into your pants and you gasped. Before you had time to process anything, you back was against the wall. “She was the first victim of Jack the Ripper, the world’s first documented serial killer.” He kissed your temple. “I thought he was pretty cool when I was small so I hung out here a lot.” 

He leaned in against your ear and lightly sang; 

_From hell. Mr Lusk, Sor I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer signed Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk_

He looked down at his hand. “I’m hoping that gasp was an indication of a ‘yay’ instead of a ‘nay,’” he said, fingers just hovering. “I mean, I am irresistible but some people just have such _bad taste.”_

Doing your best not to look like absolute putty in his hands, you replied, “What are you waiting for, James?” 

Moriarty closed his eyes and drew in a massive breath and blew it out with a smirk. Shaking his head, he purred, “You don’t know what you’ve just done, love.” And then his fingers were inside you and his teeth were clamped down on your neck, causing you to let out a small scream at the two conflicting sensations. 

Immediately self-conscious, you remembered that you were in a public area where hundreds of people could see you. To your shock, everyone had seemed to have evaporated into thin air. There wasn’t a lot of time to think about the strange occurrence because you had a pair of fingers that stroked just the right spot inside of you to make your legs twitch. You immediately refocused your attention on your lover. The word had not been allowed in your head since this affair had started, but you had given in. 

James Moriarty was the greatest threat to your family, your personal academic project, and your lover. 

When your lips came together, it was desperate and hungry. He didn’t even wait for you to part your lips to slip his tongue through, quickly meeting your own. You grabbed the back of his head and pulled him closer and ran your hands through his hair, tugging it excitedly. 

Your behavior was reciprocated tenfold when Moriarty’s fingers began to use more pressure as he fingered you. Expertly, he brought the heel of his palm against your clit, allowing every movement of his hand to give you outward stimulation. You only clawed at his hair harder, making him smirk. 

He had moved on to sucking the sensitive skin behind your ear when your muscle spasms began. You bit your lip as your walls closed in on Moriarty’s fingers, your whole lower abdomen tightening as you orgasm. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. 

With his sly grin that could only mean trouble, Moriarty growled, “I plan to.” He looked down and withdrew his hand from your pants. “You better get those off toot sweet or the child catcher’s going to come and throw us _awaaaaaaay,”_ he chimed. 

You threw your head back and laughed, wiggling out of your underclothes. “Don’t waste your pucker on some all-day sucker,” you sang back, kicking your underwear away. You watched Moriarty discard his suit jacket, somehow able to throw them onto the fence above your head. 

“£958.22 for the blazer alone.” He shook his head. “You’re not worth it.” He looked down at your naked half and pouted, his eyebrows raising in surprise. “Perhaps you are. I must have forgot.” He placed his hands on your hip bones, his thumbs running circles around the sharp protrusions. Without any warning, his hands slid across your bare waist to the small of your back and you were completely pinned, his body now touching every surface of yours. 

To your absolute shock, you felt a full erection through his pants. Yes, you were very much aware that you were going to have sex for the last…whenever this started. Your mind was too foggy to focus. You were also very much aware that this was the second time you were with him, but the realization that Moriarty, _the Moriarty_ , was also basic enough to receive sexual arousal was just a little hard to grasp. What made it even more ethereal was that you were the one who brought him there. 

You leaned in and threaded your hands through his hair, pulling his head to the side and exposing the juncture between his clavicle and neck, all the while he ran his hands up and around your bare thighs, exploring your soft skin and gentle curves. You lightly kissed him on the sensitive spot before gently brushing your hand against his bulge. 

What immediately occurred after that was something you would never get used to. For a few precious seconds, James Moriarty had lost his façade, and responded to an occurrence without any mimicking or manipulating. The limbic system in his brain practically punched his psychosis aside. 

Moriarty jumped as soon as your fingers touched him, a small gasp falling from his lips. His eyes that had just been narrowed like a hungry lion’s shot open as he sub-consciously thrusted his hips into your hand. Not wanting to make him feel embarrassed or in his mind lose face as the epitome of danger, you brought your lips to his while you began to fiddle with his belt. 

He batted your hand away, wanting to regain control. As he unbuckled his belt, an unwelcomed but well deserved sense of guilt washed over you. This wasn’t Sherlock, the man you had loved for the past five years. This wasn’t your best friend or the father of your beautiful baby girl. This was a murderer _after_ the man you loved and who had whisked away your baby daughter. 

Yet James Moriarty was the charismatic, funny, oh so charming master of sex appeal. All of those were fake, of course. He was a complete psychopath and his charm and affection were fake, but that’s why you liked him so much. Your scientific brain couldn’t turn itself off no matter how hard you tried. This whole walk you had been playing around with the idea that you may had fallen prey to the ‘Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome,’ clinically called Hybristophilia; a psychological condition when sexual satisfaction is directly achieved with those who are known to be criminals. 

You were immediately snatched from your thoughts when your right leg was lifted. Moriarty cupped the bottom curve of your knee joint as he ran a hand through your hair. With a rough tug of your hair, he pulled your head back and ran his tongue across the entire length of your exposed neck until he got to your lips. He bit your lip before giving you a rough kiss. 

Without warning, he thrusted into you. Hard. You jumped in surprise, both in pleasure and in pain with the contact with your cervix. You couldn’t mask your gasp. 

The hand in your hair pulled your head back down and you were met with that conceited, now lustful face. James Moriarty was back, and he was going to devour you. That smirk, that smirk that showed that he knew exactly what he was doing and going to do to you on his face. 

“You’re in trouble,” he said lowly, with another snap of his hips. The Irish inflection bloomed in his baritone, causing you to grab his waist and wrench it against yours. It brought him deeper inside of you, making you both moan. 

Moriarty had slammed one of your hands above your head against the concrete wall and the back had started to hurt. You tried to bring it down, but Moriarty only pushed on it harder with a growl. You realized that you did not have any control in this situation. 

You couldn’t help but let your thoughts drift to Sherlock. He was somewhere in London, most likely at home, trying to figure out who James Moriarty was and where he was. 

You knew very well who he was, and he was currently inside of you. 

With conviction, you pushed the thought to the back of your mind and ran your hands along Moriarty’s chest and shoulders, reaching the nape of his neck, massaging the skin in small circles as you abused his mouth. You began to tug at his hair with every thrust, having no other outlet to handle all of the pleasure that was taking over your body. 

Morairty leaned in, his mouth right next your ear. You could see the beads of sweat dripping down his neck. 

_He sweats?_

You shook the thought away. Again, he _was_ still a person. 

You felt his hot breath on your neck and it gave you goose bumps. 

Panting, he still somehow asked with his usual comical flare, “Having fun, sweetheart?” 

Rather than responding, you gave his hair a good tug and bucked your hips, causing him to twitch. The conversation was immediately dropped. 

~*~ 

You were there for god knows how long until you were satisfied. Lowering your leg, Morairty stepped back and immediately pulled himself together. In the blink of an eye, his pants were completely straightened out and his buckle was fastened. 

“Are you shy?” you asked, stunned as you stepped into your underwear. 

Moriarty snorted. “I don’t like looking primitive.” He flattened out the wrinkles in his shirt and straightened out his tie, cracking his neck. 

You had your pants back on and were running a hand through your hair, which must have looked like a rat’s nest. You saw that Moriarty was combing his hair back into the perfect part. 

“Christ, James. Are you going to pull out a foot scrub kit out next?” 

He didn’t answer, instead reaching up and grabbing his blazer. Slipping it on without a word, he straightened the lapels. When he was satisfied, he pulled out his phone, popped his headphones in and spun on his heal. Without a second glance, he began to walk away. 

“James?” you called, confused about his dismissiveness. 

His music must not have been full volume, because he looked over his shoulder. 

“Where are you going?” You couldn’t keep the hurt out of your voice. 

He cocked his head. “I’m leaving the alley of the two whores. I’ll text you later, sweetheart. Aloha!” With that, he turned his back around and walked away, whistling a tune you couldn’t recognize because you were too busy crying. 

~*~ 

John Watson opened the door to 221B with his elbow. Pushing it wider with his shoulder, he stumbled in. 

“Sherlock, can you help with these groceries? She wanted a watermelon and I’m about to drop it.” His voice went quiet. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, deep in thought. This was a regular occurrence, and it would normally not come as a surprise to John. However now Sherlock sat with one long leg gracefully crossed over the other, fingers not steepled but laying on his chair’s armrests. His blue eyes were open and staring straight ahead into absolute nothingness. 

Before John could even get a word out Sherlock said lowly, “She’s lying to me, John.” 

John furrowed his brow and slowly placed the groceries on the ground. “I don’t quite follow you, mate.” He walked over and sat in his chair, ready to listen to anything his best friend was about to tell him. The groceries lay long forgotten. 

Still looking blankly ahead, Sherlock said lowly, “She told me that she was going into work today, which I found quite odd to begin with because she never works overtime anymore, but you never know with her.” His lip quirked only for a second before it reverted back to its neutral straight line. 

John crossed his arms and sat back. He found that rather hard to believe, but knew Sherlock must have a good reason for his suspicion. “Why do you think that?” 

“I noticed that she didn’t bring her favorite pen, so I stopped by to give it to her.” 

John raised an eyebrow. “You went to see her for a _pen?”_

Sherlock rested his elbows on his knees and entwined his fingers into a fist. Resting his nose against it, he reiterated, “It was her favorite.” 

John’s face softened. “Of course,” he corrected himself. 

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I went in and there were two students I recognized working on some cadaver, and I asked them if she was there. Apparently, she had never even come in.” Sherlock shrugged. “She’s never lied to me before, at least not like this.” His eyes flicked to John’s. “I don’t know what to do.” 

John hummed. “Well, why don’t you ask her when she comes home?” 

”Because I don’t want to know the answer.” 

”Then you’re just going to keep feeling like this. I know you’re in between a rock and a hard place, but you need to make a choice. You either confront her about it or we walk on eggshells until she tells you, which might be never.” 

Before Sherlock could answer, you stepped into the flat and Sherlock’s eyes met yours.

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://www.dazzlejunction.com/generators/image-generator.php)  
>   
> 
> 
>   
> *literal representation of me (a.k.a. larry david) during the entire writing process of this work. I would have to write all the betrayal down even though I didn't want to (but did)
> 
> So I went with Moriarty for the _first_ full detailed smut scene just to really drive home just how horrible this situation really is. 
> 
> [Here is info about what is known as the "From Hell" Letter](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/From_Hell_letter)
> 
> while this took two days to come after the last one, it actually took four non-consecutive days to write. I was able to whip up "The Nose Knows," in the middle of it and posted it. That's how careful I'm being with this affair plot.


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